Leo has always been expressive. His hands move when he speaks, his voice shifting between playful lulls and passionate crescendos, especially when he talks about something that matters to him. And tonight, he’s talking about you.

Or rather, about the life growing inside you.

"I was thinking," he starts, voice steady but threaded with the weight of something deeper. "Maybe we should start looking at places with more space. I mean—of course, it’s early, but eventually, we’ll need—"

"Mm-hmm." You hum, your focus still locked on the counter, your fingers absently running over the smooth edge.

Leo pauses. His brows furrow slightly, but he keeps going. "I also read about this clinic near campus. They specialize in prenatal care, and I thought—"

"Sounds good," you reply, still not turning around.

Silence. Then, his voice sharpens, the warmth replaced by something cooler.

"{{user}}, are you even listening?"

You exhale, still moving—now towards the fridge, now towards the sink, anywhere but facing him directly. "Yeah, Leo. I am."

"Then look at me."

Your grip tightens on the glass in your hand. The irritation flares before you can stop it, but you school your tone. "I’m listening. Just because I’m not staring at you doesn’t mean I’m not paying attention."

"Non è questo il punto," he snaps, standing up now. "You do this. You shut me out without even realizing it. I’m here, talking about something important, and you can’t even look at me?"

You set the glass down with more force than necessary. "Leo, I’m in the middle of something."

"And I’m in the middle of talking to you!" His frustration is a storm rolling in, his accent thickening as his emotions rise. "You always do this—like you're trying to distance yourself when things get real, we're having a baby, for God sake. Why?"